by C. C. Ekeke
“Alright!” Jono clapped to draw attention back to himself. “The Ad Sales pitch meeting is in ten minutes. We’ve got a great cache of proposals. Any more? Going once, going twice…”
Quinn nearly raised her hand. Her awesome idea had taken shape since that Vanguard press conference. Both Jensen and Creed had loved it. But would Jono find it saleable?
I should wait… She lowered her half-raised hand.
Jono looked ready to end the meeting. A strange burst of courage overtook Quinn’s common sense and her mouth started moving. “I got one.”
Jono looked her way and pointed. “Shoot, Black Irish.”
Sheets! All eyes were on Quinn. She couldn’t retreat now. “Other news sites and networks are interviewing superheroes about how they’ll continue Titan's legacy.” Once she started, Quinn was feeling more confident. “What if SLOCO Daily shadowed the Vanguard for a week of in-depth interviews? About who the Vanguard is without Titan?”
“There’ve been stories like that,” Kevin Padilla replied.
Quinn expected such a response. “Opinions from superhero experts,” she countered. “Not the Vanguard themselves. It’s a Titan-adjacent story people would want to watch.” The fact that no other news organization had done this blew her mind.
Jono studied her with great interest. “Who’d the reporter be?”
Quinn shrugged. In a perfect world, it'd be her. But she knew that wouldn’t happen with her lack of seniority. “Whomever you and Helena choose.”
Other reporters and content managers looked impressed, many expressing approval. Only Jono’s opinion mattered to Quinn.
“Interesting," he finally said, "but not sellable right now.” His expression looked half-enthusiastic at best, bored at worst. “Word from up top for the next month is to keep focus on Titan, his effect across the world, and a possible heir apparent.”
Quinn nodded, hiding her disappointment behind a tight-lipped smile. She understood that ideas got rejected constantly. Jono was right. Now might not be ideal to discuss Vanguard’s next phase.
After the meeting ended, Jono pulled her aside. He stood half a foot over Quinn, with lifts in his sneakers. “Tag along with me. You’ve impressed lots of folks recently,” Jono said, patting her shoulder. “Time that you got a wee taste of the adults’ table.”
“Absolutely!” Quinn blurted out, disappointment forgotten. Whether the invite came at Helena’s request or from him, she didn’t care.
Jono smiled roguishly. “Watch and learn. I’ll show ya how to pitch Ad Sales for Branded Stories.”
Later, Quinn sat beside Jono in Jefferson Conference Room, one of many conference rooms named after US Presidents. The room was full of SLOCO Daily’s Editorial heads and at least one of each department’s senior reporters. On the conference line were SLOCO Daily’s sales execs from across the country. In this meeting, the Editorial heads pitched news stories or series to Ad Sales in hope of grabbing interest. Quinn felt excited and scared to be in the room with these editorial higher-ups. She spotted Medina Levy, her Lifestyle & Culture boss, across the table.
Quinn waved. Medina nodded back with full-on resting bitch face.
Her and Quinn’s relationship was solid. Medina’s issue was with Jono, whom she loathed.
Helena Madden was absent. “Helena sometimes attends but feels it’s unnecessary,” Jono had explained earlier. “She trusts her Editorial leads with handling Packer.”
Seven minutes after the meeting started, the VP of Ad Sales waddled into Jefferson. Grumpy Editorial leads brightened with raucous applause. Dave Packer, or Packer as many called him, smirked at his flatterers and sat at the table’s center. In his late fifties, red-faced and bald, Packer radiated a charm honed during his advertising agency days. His dark slacks and white button-down did little to flatter his overweight physique.
On his right sat his son Scott Packer, Director of Ad Sales. Scott was a younger version of his dad, except slim with buzzcut reddish hair and a penchant for colorful polo shirts. From Quinn’s interactions with Scott, he came off friendly and knowledgeable. But from what she’d heard around the office, he abused his privilege regularly to get his way on projects.
Tania Navarro sat on Packer’s left—tanned, tight, and toned—placing a bowl of M&Ms before her boss.
Quinn arched an eyebrow. While beneath the job tasks for an ad manager, she understood. Dave Packer LOVED snacks.
No kidding, Quinn mused, eyeing the apron of fat protruding under Packer’s shirt.
News went first, pitching a spotlight on escaped refugees from the isolated Caribbean island of Amarantha, rumored to be an apartheid state.
During the News pitches, Packer finished the bowl of M&Ms. Every. Single. One. He grunted in annoyance and sent a text on his iPhone. Five minutes later, Jess Richardson-Palmer scurried into the conference room with a bowl of Twix, Reese’s, and Snickers.
She placed the candy bowl in front of Packer and scurried back out.
Quinn fought back laughter after exchanging looks with Jono. Glancing around the table, she saw she wasn’t alone in her amusement. But Scott and Tania were scanning the room, so Quinn maintained a straight face.
When Superheroes’ turn came, Jono gave four strong Titan-related pitches. Spotlights on seven Titan successors. The Titan life timeline. A series on Titan’s greatest battles. And finally, their series covering Titan’s influence on society and other superheroes.
Packer shot everything down. “You want to do those without sponsorship, be my guest,” Packer said, his voice like a prolonged grumble. “But with so much Titan-related content out, we need something fresh with viral impact so our sponsors get their money’s worth.”
Jono’s face was blank, but the rage quivering off him was palpable. Quinn cringed at the ensuing silence.
She’d heard how brutal these Ad Sales meetings were. Watching firsthand was worse. Superheroes would walk away empty.
“Maybe an interview series featuring the Vanguard, post-Titan?” Jono blurted out, cutting off the head of Politics.
That drew everyone’s attention, especially Quinn's. Is he serious right now?
Jono, in panicky salesman mode, focused on Packer. “SLOCO Daily can install me and another reporter for a week with the Vanguard.”
Quinn stiffened. Yes, Jono was peddling her idea that he’d vetoed half an hour ago.
Scott Packer leaned forward. He looked intrigued. “Continue.”
Now Jono was feeling himself, framing his hands like a movie director while explaining the series premise Quinn had mapped out to him. “We get behind the masks, watching the Vanguard do battle, from afar of course. We get to know who these superheroes are who have protected us for years and how they're facing this brave new world without Titan.”
Quinn’s ears began burning as she clenched her teeth to keep from screaming. Hearing her own words spouted off to Packer and his son Scott while she sat beside the thief? Quinn itched to grab that lowlife Irishman's throat and throttle him.
Then expose Jono McGowan to the whole room.
But such an outburst, no matter how justified, wasn’t a good look.
Sales executives were on the conference line. The Ad Sales VP sat across the table, and the heads of SLOCO Daily’s Editorial Sections.
Jono would have full justification to throw Quinn off Superheroes Editorial.
Heck, she'd be fired…and charged with assault.
So Quinn seethed in silence.
Adding further insult, Packer looked pleased by Jono’s stolen pitch. “We can work with that!” he exclaimed, jowls jiggling as he bounced in his seat.
The rest of the meeting was a blur. Quinn was too furious to pay attention. As soon as the meeting ended, she exited the room and waited by the door.
Jono emerged ten minutes later with Packer and his son, three good old boys laughing like college pals.
Quinn trailed them until Jono was finally alone in his office. She stormed right in. “I thought my idea w
asn’t sellable,” the reporter demanded, not caring that he was on a call.
Seeing that Quinn wasn’t leaving, Jono excused himself from his call and rose to address her. “From you, the pitch would’ve tanked.” He grinned smarmily, as if she should be grateful. “I made it sellable.”
“I get that pitching ideas to Packer is your responsibility,” Quinn admitted. “I’m bothered by you shooting down my idea, then pitching it anyway.”
Jono folded his arms with an oily smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He rounded his desk and stood before Quinn again. “Let’s be honest, Quinn. We both know you wanted to be the interviewer for these Vanguard interviews. But Ad Sales would’ve never gone for that. You’re too…too…”
“Black?” Quinn retorted bluntly. For a moment, the reporter couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud. The moment passed quickly.
Jono stopped smiling, the office dropping in temperature. “I was going to say ‘junior.’ Don’t worry,” he replied stiffly. “If the Vanguard agrees to this, maybe you’ll help edit the interviews.”
Quinn didn’t think Jono resembled even a discount Colin Farrell. He just looked gross and horrible. The Irishman headed back to his desk. “Better luck next time, luv. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to rejoin that call you interrupted.”
Anger threatened to overwhelm Quinn. She whirled and stormed out. Creed was right about Jono. Her instincts said to tell Helena what happened, which would force the Editor-in-Chief to choose between a junior reporter and an Editorial lead that was also her boyfriend who had sold a moneymaking pitch to Ad Sales.
Helena’s choice would be clear to a blind man.
Meaning, Quinn had no options.
Chapter 12
Quinn called in sick the next day. Better that than strangling Jono McGowan at work.
This incident put her in dangerous waters. Superheroes was SLOCO Daily’s most profitable editorial. And crossing Jono was career suicide.
Quinn could either swallow her pride and stay on Superheroes or return to writing restaurant reviews for Lifestyle. A crap or diarrhea decision.
Quinn chose option three. Stay in her pajamas and dance to old-school hip-hop in her living room. Dancing it out usually bettered things when life handed her crap sandwiches. Maybe the San Miguel Tribune or the Almeida Bay Register are hiring, Quinn considered, twirling around blithely.
So caught in her dance therapy, she missed four calls. Quinn grudgingly paused her music and skimmed through the caller IDs. All identical.
Before she could decide on replying, the phone rang again.
“You home?” the caller asked.
Quinn rubbed the bridge of her nose, dreading this conversation. “Yep.”
“I’m in my car downstairs.”
Quinn grimaced. She hadn’t showered. Her hair wasn’t combed, and anger over Jono bubbled back to the surface. “I’m feeling unwell,” Quinn said with her best sick voice.
“Clothes shopping. My treat.”
Quinn groaned, trapped. “Ten minutes.”
After freshening up and tossing on a T-shirt and jeans, her mass of kinky curls held back in a headband, Quinn headed out. Helena Madden’s white BMW sat across the street. She waved from the driver’s seat.
Quinn trudged over like a sullen teenager and entered the front passenger seat.
“Creed told me what Jono did,” Helena said after greetings were exchanged. “I’m sorry. He’s been under tons of pressure these last few weeks.”
Quinn made a rude noise. Venting to Creed yesterday wasn’t wise. He was a close work friend, but a blabbermouth. “Creed should’ve kept quiet.”
“I’m glad he didn’t, uncouth delivery aside.” Helena ran fingers through her short, shaggy locks. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Quinn scoffed. Was she that blind to this problem? “Are you asking as my Editor-in-Chief or my friend?”
“The latter,” Helena replied after a moment.
“Tattling on your superstar boyfriend for stealing my idea?” Quinn vented heatedly. “That puts you in a crappy position.”
“I’ll worry about any positions with my boyfriend,” Helena snapped.
Quinn’s stomach crawled up her throat. “Fine. And GROSS.”
Helena blanched. “Oy vey. Bad word choice.” Both women laughed.
“So, this shopping spree,” Quinn said after regaining composure. “Is this your way of apologizing for Jono?” The reporter knew all about Helena fixing Jono’s messes around the Editorial department.
“No.” The Editor-in-Chief watched her with piercing blue eyes. That look usually preceded an important assignment. “The shopping will get you kickass clothing for your next assignment.”
A mea culpa. Quinn kept that contained. “Which is?”
Helena could barely contain her enthusiasm. “Shadowing the Vanguard for two weeks.”
“WHAT?” Quinn’s mouth fell open as she recoiled in her seat. “I thought Jono was leading that—”
“He’ll executive produce as head of Superheroes,” Helena said. “You’ll interview the Vanguard.”
Quinn was astonished, happy and emotional all at once. “But how…?” she gasped.
Helena eyed her reproachfully. “SLOCO Daily Editor-In-Chief, remember?”
Quinn winced, now addressing her Editor-In-Chief. “Noted.”
Helena softened, staring out the windshield. Quinn noticed dark circles around her eyes. She moved to inquire about Helena’s well-being. “I told the powers-that-be you were the best fit," the Editor-In-Chief interjected. "Those sidewalk confessionals after Titan’s death helped sell you to Ad Sales and other skeptics. We called the Vanguard’s liaisons last night and they loved the idea.” Helena returned her attention to Quinn with a proud, glowing look. “There's still some minutiae to hammer out. But you’ll start mid-next week!” She clutched her protégé’s shoulders, ecstatic.
“Holy fudge…” Quinn, a junior reporter from small-town Massachusetts, was going to interview the world’s greatest superhero team. The awareness grew scary, inescapable.
“This is really happening.” She clasped hands with Helena. To think she’d doubted this amazing woman. “Thank you.”
Helena reclined in her seat, studying Quinn like a hawk. “You earned it. Now you gotta bring it.”
Those last words were an anointing as much as a warning. Quinn nodded so fast, her kinky curls wobbled. “I will,” she promised.
“You better.” Strapping on her seatbelt, Helena waited until Quinn followed suit. A mischievous grin slashed her face. “Now let’s get you some kickass clothes.”
Chapter 13
After a few days of searching and a week of postponing, Greyson found a shrink, Richard St. Pierre.
Because of his practice’s location, Greyson almost passed on him: crime-ridden East St. Louis. But St. Pierre's later office hours accommodated Greyson’s work and volunteer schedule. The therapist also handled superhuman issues. That sealed Greyson’s choice, given doctor/patient confidentiality agreements.
Now Greyson sat in a vacant and aged waiting room, hating life. The only other occupant was a young fair-skinned receptionist on her computer, pausing briefly to text on her cell. Typical. Greyson twiddled his thumbs, waves of anxiety crashing into him. The last time he’d seen a therapist was age nine, after the incident that had wrecked things with Dad. Questions gnawed at his shaky resolve. Would therapy even help? Maybe one of those hack doctors who claimed they could remove superpowers made more sense.
This was a stupid idea. Greyson rose to leave, prepared to eat the cancellation fee. Then he remembered Mom’s and Sara’s terrified faces two weeks ago. And his twisted joy at seeing Dad’s fear of him. Shame smoldered inside him.
Greyson found a distraction on TV across the room.
The local news finally took a break from nonstop Titan coverage, spotlighting the Hurricane. St. Louis’s patron hero fought criminals with fearsome fighting skills and gale-force winds. He appeared li
the and long-limbed, wearing blue and grey Kevlar armor with a goggled mask that covered all but the mouth. Footage displayed The Hurricane rocketing upward by generating a cyclone funnel around his legs. Greyson marveled at him. But superheroing was the last thing he’d use his powers for. Greyson just wanted his outbursts to stop.
The news anchor and a panel debated the Hurricane’s efficiency. Was he improving things or just holding the line? Or was the Hurricane’s presence drawing more superpowered crime to St. Louis?
“Brave man, whoever he is,” a deep, velvety voice stated behind Greyson. “Crappy costume.”
He turned to face the tall, well-dressed black man. This stranger had handsome features with closely cropped hair. He looked lean and fit, wearing a grey vest and slacks with a white button-down and purple tie. This man dressed like a therapist.
“I like the suit,” Greyson admitted. “For protecting St. Louis, Hurricane can wear whatever he wants.”
Richard St. Pierre smiled. “Greyson Hirsch, I presume?”
“Guilty as charged.” Greyson accepted the firm, trusting handshake.
“Call me Richard.” St. Pierre gestured toward his office.
“Now,” St. Pierre began, sitting across from Greyson and crossing his legs. “Tell me about yourself.”
Greyson did as asked, discussing Mom, Lauren, his brawl with Dad. Soon he was back in childhood, detailing Dad’s neglect, indifference, and hatred. Greyson avoided his abilities. He’d just met Dr. St. Pierre. Besides asking follow-up questions, the therapist silently scribbled on his notepad.
Greyson wasn’t annoyed by this, knowing how therapy worked in the early phases.
He glanced at the clock and gaped. Thirty-five minutes had flown by.
“I sense something missing, Greyson,” the therapist finally said, leaning forward. “Your father didn't always hate you, did he? What changed?”
Damn it. Greyson thought they’d be a few sessions deep before reaching this point. His first impulse was to lie, which he sucked at. St. Pierre would see through it. Greyson closed his eyes to summon whatever courage currently eluded him. “Dad used to love me.” After a few minutes, heart feeling squeezed, Greyson opened his eyes. “Remember the Alaska Attack?”